My Journey to the Border: A Tale of Waiting, Hope, and Despair

After arriving in Tijuana, the only task left was to secure a date for my border crossing and wait. It wasn’t an easy process. Nearly a month passed before I managed to get an appointment, scheduled for December 21, 2024—two weeks away.

In the end, I spent about a month and a half in Tijuana. During this time, I met a group of guys who, like me, were waiting for their turn to cross the border. We lived nearby, which made the wait a little less lonely. With not much to do, our daily activities revolved around grocery runs, trips to the laundromat, strolls on the beach, watching movies, and indulging in some carnal pleasures. Evenings often included alcohol, and on a few occasions, marijuana. Yes, out of sheer boredom and the lack of structure, we drank—a lot.

We frequently visited the beach near the fence separating the United States and Mexico. Standing so close to the U.S., yet feeling so far away due to the uncertainty, filled us with a bittersweet mix of hope and despair. Once, we even witnessed a group of people scaling the fence in an audacious attempt to cross.

Finally, the long-awaited day arrived—December 21. My appointment was scheduled for 5 a.m., but I left much earlier, arriving around 2:30 a.m. I was grateful to the guys for their support as they came with me to see me off.

When we arrived, the place was already crowded with people waiting. Soon, Mexican border officers began letting us through, checking only for proof of an appointment. At around 3 a.m., we were told to switch off all electronic devices. The journey to the U.S. border involved several stops, where we waited before proceeding further.

An interesting detail: the Mexican authorities didn’t record our departure in any official capacity. No stamps in our passports, no border checks—it was as if we were simply vanishing into the void.

At the U.S. border, officials checked us against their lists. We were instructed to leave our belongings, pick up a chair, and move to another room to wait. It was around 5 a.m. when the processing began, but my turn came later. They took my information, fingerprints, and even a DNA sample before telling me to sit and wait again. People were gradually being processed and released, but as the hours dragged on, I grew anxious.

After 4–5 hours, I was one of the few left. When they called me again, I noticed my passport sealed in an envelope and knew something was wrong. Instead of signing any paperwork, an officer simply said, “Let’s go. You’ll collect your belongings.” As we walked, I asked, “Is something wrong?” but received no answer.

They led me to another room, instructed me to remove all jewelry and shoelaces, and place everything into my own bags, which were then tagged with labels. I was given a form to fill out. No one explained what was happening, but by then, I knew—I was being detained.

Alex was my guarantor. I had provided his details and address as the place I’d be staying. He was waiting for me that day, but I wasn’t allowed to contact him. My phone remained switched off in the confiscated bag.

With me, they also detained another Russian girl and a Spanish-speaking family with a child. We were driven to a facility not far away. There, they processed us, and we were told we could keep only one item of clothing for the lower body, two for the upper body and shoes. Luckily, I had dressed wisely—perhaps subconsciously sensing trouble. I kept my boots, jeans, a thin sweater, and my coat.

We were searched, seated, and given a meager meal. Later, they handed us thin mats, like yoga mats, to sleep on and sheets of foil for warmth.

I was placed in a cell with the other Russian girl. The cell also housed several other Russian girls and a group of Spanish speakers who didn’t speak English. One of the Russian girls had been there for four days already and began explaining the grim reality of our situation.

This was just a border detention. They could hold us there for a week, possibly two—I wasn’t entirely sure what the legal time limits were. After that, we would either be released or sent to immigration detention to await a hearing—a process that could take months.

The conditions were bleak. The cell had benches along the walls, each long enough to fit three people lying down, while the rest of us, myself included, slept on the cold floor. There were two toilets with low partitions offering little privacy, one sink, and a perpetually lit room with no clocks. Time was gauged by meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—or by asking officers. The air-conditioning was relentless.

I broke down. It felt like a nightmare, and I desperately wanted to wake up. The thought of deportation haunted me. If I were banned from entering the U.S. forever, my life would feel over. This was my childhood dream, my life’s goal. Without it, everything seemed meaningless.